


Warmth in the air

by London_Fog



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/London_Fog/pseuds/London_Fog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the same verse as Dew on the leaves, drabbles. Kids being kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth in the air

  **Year 1.**

He finds Sherlock brooding in one of the closets in the Hospital Wing.

“Come on, we’ve got to get to flying lessons.”

“I’m sick.”

John rolls his eyes. “No you’re not. If you were, you’d be in the beds, and not the closets.”

“I am. Go away.” John pushes his way inside, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. “Hey! There’s no space!”

 “Whatever. I’m staying put.” John says determinedly.

There’s silence between them and really, it’s uncomfortable because John can almost feel a spider crawling on his shoulder as he spies that little bit of cobweb that got tangled in Sherlock’s messy hair.

“You should be getting to class.” Sherlock remarks eventually.

“So why aren’t you?”

Sherlock’s reply is a murmur that is barely audible, but John catches it anyway. “Hate it.”

He blinks. “Oh. Okay then.”

He later finds out from Mycroft that Sherlock has problems controlling the broomstick.

**Year 2.**

John wakes up to find Sherlock glaring at him. He jumps, and his forehead collides with Sherlock’s and they sit, wincing in pain for several moments and rubbing the forming bruise, before John glances at the clock on his bedside table.

“Sherlock,” he cries, “it’s three am!”

William in the nearby bed mutters in his sleep, and then John remembers where they are. Oh, hell. He pulls his bathrobe on and grabs Sherlock’s wrist, ignoring the other’s protests as he drags him down the winding stairs of the dormitories and into the empty Gryffindor common room.

“Okay, firstly, how the hell did you even get in here?”

He tries to glare at Sherlock, but it’s probably more amusing than anything, with his tousled hair and barely-awake face.

“Oh, John, you belittle me. I’ve been able to enter the Gryffindor Tower since last year. Or at least, when I needed to.” Sherlock shrugs.

“What? Then what about that time when - you know what, never mind. Why are you here? And make it good.”

“House elves.”

John could hardly believe it. “Seriously? House elves? That’s what you woke me up at three in the morning for? What are they preparing, a mutiny against us all?” He yawns and drops himself into a nearby armchair, the fireplace spitting out the last of its sparks feebly. “Honestly, Sherlock, some of us need to _sleep_.”

Sherlock harrumphs. “Well, I wouldn’t concern myself with them normally, but then there was the case from Muirhead, and then I realised, the house elves might have been a witness to the crime!” He exclaims brightly.

John has always had a soft-spot for passionate people, so when he sees Sherlock this excited, it’s a bit more endearing than anything else, even though it’s at some god-forsaken hour, so he just rolls his eyes and ask about Sherlock’s plan.

**Year 3.**

Sherlock slides into the seat opposite of him in Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. He glances at Sherlock for a moment, before returning to sulking at his tea.

Sherlock coughs a little, and sits up. “So. Bad date?”

John glowers. “I didn’t even do anything wrong this time! She calls me to this stupid place and tells me that I’m a great boyfriend but she doesn’t think we’re really dating and then leaves!” He throws his hands up in despair. “I mean, what’s up with that?”

Sherlock nods absentmindedly, but John knows that he’s not really listening. A fit of giggles burst out somewhere adjacent to them, and, bemoaning his fate, he slams his face on the table.

“I hate this god-awful place.”

Sherlock hums and takes a sip from John’s cup. “The tea’s not that bad.”

John turns a glare at him. “It’s disgusting. All watered-down and everything and why are you even here? You hate coming to Hogsmeade.”

“The mind is a fickle thing. It’s not that hard to change.”

John smirks a little. “Oh? But yours is the most stubborn of them all.”

Sherlock shakes his head gently. “Not as much as yours, sometimes. Honeydukes?” He’s already up on his feet, extending a hand to John to pull him up.

John doesn’t even hesitate.

**Year 4.**

At first, it was an argument that breaks out in one of the greenhouses between Sherlock and one of the Slytherins named Moriarty, which quickly escalates into a duel that involved flinging mandrake pots at one another.

Then Sherlock turns Moriarty into a toad, just before Professor Sprout intervenes.

There are house points deducted and a week’s worth of detention for the both of them, thankfully separately, and Professor McGonagall was both unamused but almost impressed when she turns up to reverse that tricky bit of transfiguration.

John waits for Sherlock outside Greenhouse Four on the first day of the punishment.

“It was supposed to be permanent.” Sherlock complains. “Moriarty is an idiot.”

“Isn’t everyone, though?” John points out. It was a statement frequently made by Sherlock.

Sherlock regards John for a moment, eyes glinting, before concluding with a bit of mysterious triumph. “Well, maybe not _all_ of them. But still, most are.”

**Year 5.**

“Thomas, Michael”

John would say that wasn’t nervous, but he was. At any rate, despite it being his final OWL, divination was a subject that always managed to turn him into a bundle of nerves. So when he starts hearing Sherlock’s voice in his head it’s little wonder that he thinks he ought to throw in the towel and give up on the whole thing.

‘ _John, it’s me you idiot._ ’

Oh, great. Now his inner Sherlock was referring to him as an idiot as well.  The least his imagination could do, in his opinion, would be to create a less-smug Sherlock that was a bit more submissive and not at all over-bearing.

Then again, that would be nothing like Sherlock.

‘ _Exactly_.’

He almost sighs wearily. Why was his mind tormenting him so?

‘ _John, it’s Sherlock you great git. Where are you? I’ve been waiting for half an hour._ ’

That was actually exceedingly creepy.

‘ _John, do I have to spell it out for you? I have discovered a charm that will allow me to speak to you telepathically, giving me convenient access to you._ ’

He groans aloud and mercifully, the students around him are too preoccupied with last-minute revision to care. Trust Sherlock to think of this! Hounding him endlessly even during an examination, of all things.

‘ _Don’t even attempt to deny that you like it._ ’

John scowls a bit and hopes Sherlock catch it. ‘Damn right I don’t. Sherlock, go away.’

“Vanders, Sommersen”

Oh, and there goes the person right before him. Great. He’s nowhere near being prepared.

‘ _I’m bored_.’

‘And I’m busy. Go entertain yourself.’

He can almost hear a faint huff of irritation, and there’s peace for a couple of minutes before his name is called and he’s led into the examination chamber. The usual formalities come and go, he nods at the examiner and he tries to focus on the hazy crystal ball when Sherlock’s voice sounds in his mind again.

_‘John, I’ve got your diary.’_

And in that moment John loses what little composure he has and stands up in ire, yelling. “Bloody hell, Sherlock!”

The examiner stares at him, offended and largely dismayed and John can feel a blush rising up to his ears.

-

It comes as no surprise then, that months later when the OWLs results arrive, he’s failed divination.

He sends a howler to Sherlock for good measure.

**Year 6.**

John gets into a flying accident during the finals of the Quidditch Cup by a hit from one of Slytherin’s beater, and when he hits the ground his broom snaps into two.

His last coherent thought was ‘ _at least I got the Snitch_.’

He wakes up to excruciating pain in his entire body, and Sherlock bursting into the hospital wing. Impeccable timing and all, as usual then, John supposes.

“Hey.” He says wearily.

Sherlock plops down on the bedside seat, frowning at the bandages on John’s body. “I told you brooms were nasty things.”

John resists the temptation to roll his eyes, and instead, basks in the momentary concern from Sherlock. “I’m fine. It was the bludger. From Moran, I think.” He pushes himself up. “So, what’s up?”

“Nothing. No cases.” Sherlock drawled. “Boring. Hurry up and recover.”

“You can’t put a time on recovery, Sherlock.”

“Yeah, but you can on revenge. So much better.” Sherlock replies as-a-matter-of-factly, and pulls out a wand that John’s quite sure he hasn’t seen before.

“Wait, Sherlock, is that…?”

Sherlock beams in absolutely fake innocence. “Moran’s wand? Found it conveniently somewhere from an anonymous source.” He taps the cup on the bedside stand and makes it dance across the table. “Unless, Moran is well-versed in non-verbal spells, which I know for a fact that only extends to so little, he’s going to have a difficult, inconvenient time for a while.”

“And inconvenience is the worst thing to ever happen to anybody.” John says dryly.

“Exactly. Glad you’re catching on.” Sherlock flicks the wand around for a while. “Wonder what he’s been up to. _Prior Incantato_!”

There’s a huge bang and a swelling cloud of blue smoke that leaves them both coughing, and Madam Pomfrey storms out, pushing Sherlock out for disturbing the patients while John howls in laughter.

**Year 7.**

Getting past the eagle-knocker on the front of the Ravenclaw common room is usually easy enough, but John rarely attempts it, because he’s cautious, aware that he might be caught in the attempt. But today, being the final day of school at Hogwarts, was enough to warrant a visit, so he answers the riddle carefully at about two in the morning, knowing Sherlock is well and awake.

“Hey,” he says, as he makes his way around the fat blue armchairs, “how’s the packing going?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and returns to plucking the muggle violin.

Mundane small talk was so frustrating. He already knows Sherlock had managed to convince one of the house elves to do it for him. He takes the seat beside the fireplace and watches the fire, enjoying the warmth in the air.

“John,” Sherlock begins slowly, “if you honestly think that this will be the last time we’re seeing one another, let me inform you that you are sorely mistaken.”

He laughs a little. “Oh? You’ve got plans then.”

Sherlock sets the violin aside. “There’s this place, in London, quaint apartment on Baker Street, I think it would suit us rather nicely. I mean, unless, you’re averse to living with me, which I am absolutely fine with, by the way.”

John grins. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

 


End file.
